


Favors For Broken Cogs

by thehotinpsychotic



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotinpsychotic/pseuds/thehotinpsychotic





	Favors For Broken Cogs

Playgrounds are the happiest place for children and the worst for adults.

            I think about this as I sit on the swing, gazing out at the expanse of metal equipment before me. It’s a Sunday morning. Kids don’t have time to scamper around; they’re going to go listen to the preacher drone on about the will of God for an hour before they can form their own understanding. As a Christian, even I understand when religion’s being shoved down a child’s throat.

            I rise slowly, feeling each individual muscle work to get me to that standing position. My muscles do more for me than anyone else ever would ever sign up for.

            I’m not really sure where to go or what to do, so I just remain there, caught in insecurity. I have several ideas about where to move, but little to no confidence in any of them.

            Just being at the playground, seeing the slides, feeling the wood chips beneath my feet; I get uneasy, unsettled by all that had happened there.

            It’s not easy to forget finding a body.

            I’m crumpling to my knees; the memories coming back in full force.

            It wasn’t even an entire body; just bits and pieces of half rotted limbs.

            I’m wailing out now, not saying any coherent words, but just desperate animal cries.

            I could identify her by the birthmark on her wrist. That was the only recognizable quality intact.

            This is just as bad as the first time it happened. Neighbors had called the police; reporting screams from the playground.

            It’s my fault. I left her alone.

            The police assumed that it was something minor; an unsupervised child falling and scraping their knee.

            I told her to stay away; to not move, because I was angry.

            They were in a whole lot deeper than they thought. I feel like they may have been partially relieved; glad for the fact that they no longer had to break their backs searching for this little girl.

            She was my sister.

            I remember the sterile smell of the morgue, the cold air cutting right through my clothing.

            I was supposed to be watching her.

            My parents cried for weeks. My mom was hysterical; just screaming hollowly about how she wasn’t a mother anymore.

            If I wouldn’t have stormed off, she’d still be alive.

            My mom and dad never once said it was my fault. But I could tell; tell by their sideways glances and hushed tones, permanent scowls and curt replies, that deep down, they truly did blame me.

            They never caught who did it.

            I’m not mad at them for blaming me. If my oldest son lost my only daughter, ignoring the one duty he had which was to watch her, and then have that same child find her body in the park months later...

            The autopsy painted an awfully gruesome picture.

            I’d be upset, too. I don’t even think I’d want him in my house.

            I asked the pathologist if my little sister was alive when she was decapitated.

            I could write a novel on messing up. Future kids will look back on it as a guide of what not to do.

            The pathologist refused to give me a straight answer. Come to think of it; I didn’t get many straight answers.

            I’m being wrapped in a blanket and told to take deep breaths. It’s been a while since I’ve had a panic attack.

They’re telling me to relax, making me breathe in and out, nice and steady, easy does it. Yes, ‘easy does it’ totally solves being the primary cause of your sister’s kidnap and murder. 

            “Son, we’re going to have to ask you to remain calm.”

            I’m a terrible person.

            “Everything’s fine; you’re okay.”

            Everything’s horrible; everything’s awful. The world is a rotten place and I want out of it.

            They drive me to my parents’ house. I don’t remember telling them the address.

            My parents aren’t glad to see me; their only son, a shaking sobbing mess. I remember when I used to make them proud.

            They sit me down nonetheless, and ask if it’s about her. I nod; who else would it be?

            My mom gets all teary eyed, and I think she’s about to cry, because she leaves the room without another word. I watch her go; see her hide herself away up the stairs.

            My father doesn’t offer any condolences. I know I’m not what he wanted, nor what he expected.

            “I’m your son,” I mutter. I’m not sure why I say it, but I know that it’s the truth, and that he needs to hear it.

            He gives me a wary look, letting out a sigh. He buries his head into one hand, stringing his fingers through what’s left of his dark hair. “I never said you weren’t.”

            “You act like I’m not,” I accuse, “you treat me like a stranger.”

            He glances over to the stairs, and I know that he’s waiting for my mother to come down them and say something insincere but mildly comforting. “I’m sorry, David.”

            I scoff in disbelief, correcting, “It’s _Daniel._ ”

            He says nothing in response, showing no remorse for forgetting his own son’s name.

            I would be angry, but I know I’m just as bad as him. We’re two broken cogs in the same faulty machine. Like father like son, they always say.

            He’s still staring at those steps, anticipating my mother’s arrival. He can sense the tension between us and he hates it. I’m feeding off it.

            I decide to give the old man a break and stand, backtracking slightly before fully turning and leaving.

            I’m finished with all the favors.         

           


End file.
